


The Great British Make-Off

by Kimbeen



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Crime and Cricket, Hi-jinks, M/M, it's harry i'm planning to marry, well one of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 10:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimbeen/pseuds/Kimbeen
Summary: Bunny considers a change in career. Or his he just tossed down the rabbit-hole as usual :)





	The Great British Make-Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keyboardclicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyboardclicks/gifts).



> As a thank you for the Maurice stories you wrote based off the fic I've been working on since Cliff Richard was quite young. I've been meaning to give you something in return for ages, and so this is just to say that I really love and appreciate them. Thank you!

When you've had a few whiskies in you, and the London streets are full of puddles, thick fog and any number of rude, crashing strangers – it's a long and drudgerous slog from Mayfair to Picadilly, I can tell you. One would hardly notice the distance from the usual comfort of a hansom cab – I feared that I may have travelled my last in such style, however – at the same time, not a fear unfamiliar to me.

 

Many's the time I've gone from being up on the balcony to down on my back so suddenly it would give you whiplash – its simply the nature of this game, as I'm being told endlessly.

 

Well, tonight, _I'll_ be the one doing the telling! When I reached the Albany, clothes soaked, shoes ruined, hat crushed, I wasted no time in banging in the front door of the flat, hurling down my cape and stick and bawling: “Well I was never more insulted in my life!!”

 

“I'll bet you have been.” Raffles sat on the armchair by the toasty fire, reading, sank right down comfortably with his legs crossed and his fingers on his temple. Grey smoke tendrilled from his fresh Sullivan. The ashtray by his side brimmed.

 

“No, I have _not_. This is the final straw, the absolute living end!” I poked the fire vigourously to heat it up and all but sat in on top of it.

 

“Well now. I suppose you were over at Claridge's as always on a Tuesday evening, having the usual four-course carvery, box of cigars, enough snuff to sate an army, and the courtesy wine, women and song.”  
  


“Well, there weren't many women. More's the pity.”

 

“Hm. Now, having indulged yourself to – almost – every physical excess, you were all prepared to leave at the respectable hour of two AM, when, instead of a fond farewell from the proprietors, you suffered the heavy hand on the shoulder.”  
  


Still rubbing my shoulders, I sent him a glance from my kneeling position on the hearth. He took a long, satisfying pull on his cigarette.

 

“It would then transpire, Bunny, that you were to be further embarrassed when confronted with the cold hard fact that the tab that you were cheerfully luxuriating under – that is, ours – has not been paid in a good hearty month and that for the restaurant managers, enough was, as they say, enough. So I can imagine an agreement was yearned for on both sides; but you, Bunny, had to admit to possession of no money nor means to same.”

 

I shook my wet hair.

 

“..bad credit..”  
  


I moodily warmed my hands.

 

“..and a physique unsuited to a gentleman's settlement, you were obliged to spend half the night scrubbing pots in the kitchen.”

 

My red chapped hands flapped testament. “Well I'm dashed! However did you guess, AJ?”

 

“Guess! How you dare.”

 

I leaned an elbow on the fire-guard. “Then – how did you work out – are you a mind-reader?” I darkened. “Are you having me followed again..”

 

“Of course not, dear boy. It was simple calculation based on your appearance, demeanour, and how very long you've been out.” He knocked ash. “That and I knew it was going to happen. I rather cleared out our bank account on Tuesday, I bombed out on craps.”

 

“You knew we had no money and yet you let me march off down to the bar and eat and drink like a Royal on parole?!”

 

“You said you were sick and tired of me always telling you what to do.” And a grin like the sunlight on a window. The man is impossible. But look at me! I'm as bad. A hopeless pair of circlers.

 

Raffles waved a dismissive hand at me. “Oh, there's no talking to you when you get like this. I - oh, I say, you're soaked.” He patted my head. “It must be cats and dogs out there!”

 

“It is,” I said petulantly, although I didn't mind it so much, suddenly.

 

“Mm, yes, it was so loud on the windowpane that I had to draw the drapes. Quite deafening. Where's your umbrella, old chap?”

 

“I left it behind me.”  
  


“Oh dear. We must right that. Now! Why don't you go and have yourself a hot bath before you catch a chill, and I shall tell you how I've solved everything just as we've been sat here gassing.”

 

Only when I was laying back in the wonderful ceramic bathtub with the brass fittings and enough room to stretch out completely did I realize – he had indeed told me what to do, yet again.

 

Trouble is, when Raffles bosses me about, fifty percent of the time it's for my own direct good, and fifty percent of the time it ends up in unparalleled disaster. One hundred percent of the time it's worth it. It's like a merry-go-round – why would one want to get off?

 

So very fragrant were the bath salts, and so weary was I, that I came close to nodding off once or twice. Raffles poked his head in the bathroom doorway.

 

“My goodness! Still here? Were you planning on bathing all night? You'll be all wrinkled up like a prune.”  
  


“Hmm?” I blinked. The candle-flames flickered when he barked laughter: “Wretched creature, I suppose you deserve it.”

 

Raffles fetched the kettle and poured hot water into my lukewarm bath; instantly it warmed and I smiled lazily.

 

“Better? Now.” He sat on the edge of the tub and lit a fag. “I see you're feeling that much more relaxed and thus, it may have escaped your notice that the wee small hours have deserted us.”

 

“Huh?” I looked to the small window high above the wall pipes.

 

“You're quite correct Bunny! A bright new morning, ripe with opportunity! Behold! The answer to our prayers! You have been praying, haven't you? Good, good. Now. Just arrived in the first post.” Raffles held a telegram that looked awfully like the paper he had been reading when I first staggered into the flat some couple of hours before.

 

“An invitation to come and stay at the most esteemed Battenburg Estate by the Kiplings of Dorset. Well? You've heard of them?”

 

“Oh yes. Well – no, actually. But there's a _Who's Who_ on the bookshelf in the study, isn't there..”

 

“Or simply take my word for it – the oldest, most respectable of clans, the bluest of blood. Quite exactly the sort of place where it would be _most_ expedient for us to lay our heads for a spell. A good deal warmer, too, than the Albany, when the fuel runs out.. That and wouldn't it be nice to be 'Gone Fishing' when the bailiffs come to call..”  
  


“Ughhh..” I groaned and sank all the way down under the soapy water's surface, seeking solace. Raffles pulled the plug.

 

“Hay! Watch where you're going with your hand.” I surged upwards and sneezed and sniffled.

 

“High time you got up anyway – you're plenty clean by now.” Raffles tossed me a towel. “Put yourself to rights – have a shave too, we'll want to look respectable – I'll haul down the suitcases.”

 

“What – we're leaving _today_?”

 

“Yes indeed, I've a cab booked for – let me see – half an hour. We'll get the seven-oh-eight train from Paddington and be there fresh as spring daisies for the festivities.”

 

“Cricket, shooting, dancing, dining, all the usual?” I hopped out of the tub and began quickly foaming lather on my face.

 

“ _All_ manner of pursuits, indoor and out, yes. Do get a move on, Bunny, honestly you'd be late to your own funeral.”

 

“I wouldn't go,” I said to his retreating back. “I should think I'd skive off it.” From the bedroom I heard his laughter along with drawers and cupboard doors banging. Hooray for a lovely relaxing outing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

And didn't the premises promise! After a train journey, during which I fairly slept, and a carriage ride where I snoozed, finally I was refreshed enough to appreciate this grand estate that I'd never heard of, let alone visited, but where Raffles was likely a household name.

 

Under a large stone arch the horses trotted, then up a wide avenue of beautifully tended lawns, high ancient trees, garden beds full of spring flowers. A low lake lay to our right with all the classically-columned follies and features – oh, you are as familiar as I, likely – all the usual suspects. When one's seen one devastatingly ornate and stunning and magnificent manor, really one has seen them all. The message is always clear: here be people of good money, if not good taste.

 

In our line of work, you learn to regard such opulence with an emotional distance and a business eye. Though of course this time – we were merely hiding out. If there was a plan for a heist, a stick-up, a moonlit-lifting – why, surely Raffles would have told me by now.

 

It's rather an ongoing hiccup in our relationship. I mean to say, he never _does,_ tell me, that is, but after each and every exploit, he promises that _next_ time, _next_ timeBunny dearest, darling, he will.

 

And I believe him because – well! Where is the place to go second-guessing one's best chum?

 

It was going to be a real treat to have a nice, leisurely stay, like normal people – eat some food, talk some nonsense, watch some cricket, keep some scores, take a decanter of whiskey up to bed – perfection.

 

On the lawn in front of the mansion roved a crowd of gaily dressed, chattering people; I leaned out of the carriage window to read a banner held high between two trees: WELCOME BAKERS – INTER-COUNTY HEATS.

 

“I say! A baking competition,” I said. “That must explain why there are so very many ladies here.”

 

“That it must,” said Raffles, as he gave me a hand to step down from the carriage.

 

“Well, that'll be fun to watch too. Lots of extra eats, I should think, and you at least will soon burn it off!” I looked around; footmen and servants were already ferrying away our luggage. “Where's your cricket bag? I'll bring it through.”  
  


I like to be responsible for Raffles' bats and things. He wouldn't trust another.

 

“Hay, can't seem to find it..”

 

“Don't trouble over all that, Bunny, everything is taken care of.”

 

And so we strolled over the grass, doffing the boater here and there; quite a group of gentlemen were saying good-bye to their wives – warm embraces, kisses on cheeks – before sending them over to the registration table, where a formidable-looking woman in a tight hunting-jacket, plus-fours and boots was armed with a pen and a loudspeaker.

 

“Ladies! Where are my bakers? I'm Mrs Fishbourne, you are to report to me. Immediately!!”

 

The ladies squealed and fluttered like landing swans.

 

“COME on, let's be having you! Over here for your numbers and assignments. Shake a blooming leg!”

 

“Oo-er.” I grinned at Raffles. “Rather them than me!”  
  


Raffles returned the smile – or rather he gave back his more dazzling one. “Indeed. Well Bunny – hop along.”  
  


“Hm?” I blew out a puff of smoke. Raffles took my cigarette and gestured to the white-clothed competition table.

 

“Off you go! Take your spot! Join your flock!” he said.

 

“What are you talking about?” And the terrible realization. “You've entered me in a baking competition.”  
  


“Well – in a manner -”

 

“You're a cad and a bastard!” I snatched my cigarette back out of his mouth and flung it on the ground.

 

“Now, now, save that fire for the kitchen, Bunny. If you'll listen -”

 

“Oh what good is listening when all you do is tangle me up in lies! I suppose there's no cricket match? No hunt? No ball?”  
  


“Would I ever deny my darling a ball? I know how you love them. And alight – no match, it's true – but see – plenty of other distractions.” He waved at some ladies who were chatting and fanning themselves, and I felt the usual lurch, followed by a queasiness.

 

“No – Raffles – not this time – I won't do it. Women fall for men who come and go as they please – bursting into doorways, sword-fighting on rooftops, galloping away on horseback. Not beside them in the kitchen mixing eggs and – butter and – dash-it, whatever else it is that goes into cakes..”

 

“Flour. And you'd be surprised, Bunny – different strokes and what-not. Might do you good to meet some new people.”

 

“Arthur Raffles. Do not even ATTEMPT to pretend that this jape is for my educational benefit.”

 

“Alright.” He held up his gloved hands. “You got me. Shackled. There _is_ no match but this gala will attract some very well endowed and encrusted parties – the sort of people who approve of women working. Just the thought makes ME want to get to labouring.” He wriggled those fingers. “So you, Bunny boy, are the star of the show this time, the reason for our being here – and for everything else, I may add.”  
  


“Well..” I was melting for him, as always. “But how on earth can I compete? It's all ladies. I may not be tall and broad-shouldered and daring but I do believe I lack certain female appendages – that might not lurk under notice.”

 

“The competition is not strictly for only women.” Raffles took out a fine-printed folded paper; he always does his manipulation homework. “It's simply only women who ever go in for it. Men just don't seem to enter.”  
  


“I wonder why,” I said mournfully.

 

From over the way the loudspeaker called: “Miss Baxter? My final finalist. A Miss Baxter?”

 

“There's you, Bunny.”

 

“Me!! After all you were just saying? Miss? How can that be?”  
  


“We'll simply say it was a mis-print. Don't _worry_ so, Bunny. If they knew you were a man from the outset, they may have found it odd and would have had time to do some digging around. And we don't want that.”

 

He handed me another paper. “Here's a copy of your application, detailing your hitherto prizes and rise to this level of the contest. Don't fret – as long as you hold your nerve and make out like it's _their_ mistake, you're laughing. Of course they'll take you at face value – your very pretty face.” Though it wasn't; I had on my most stormy expression for the occasion.

 

Grumpily I shuffled through the papers. “This all looks very complicated. Why didn't you just get a woman to help you infiltrate? One that wouldn't require all of this – hoo-ha and back-story?”

 

“Bunny.” His tone of surprise. “Now you must know that there's no-one in the world I trust more than you.”  
  


Dash him and his big blue eyes. I mumbled: “Well.. Mis-placed this time, I fear, AJ. I'll go to bat for you but I'll only make a balls of it.”

 

“A fine balls, I should think! Now – they're waiting! Lickety-spit!” He took me by the shoulders and turned me around to face my bonneted executioners, and he patted me on the back. I took a few automatic steps, then when I turned back around to protest some more he was gone; probably leapt behind a tree just to be dramatic.

 

I always end up doing what Raffles tells me. I think it's because he's so much taller than me.

 

I approached the long table where the competition co-ordinator was going red in her quest for Miss Baxter.

 

“Here I am! Sorry I'm late!” I called, and tried a winning smile. The other contestants all turned to look at me. Miss Fishbourne glared.

 

“ _What_ did you say, boy – _you're_ Miss Baxter?!”

 

“Ah – yes.”  
  


“Miss _Antoinette_ Baxter?”

 

I consulted my entry forms. “It would seem so. I mean – yes, it is I. Except -” I was reading now - “I fear there must have been a mis-print, for I'm _Antoine_ Baxter. Obviously!”

 

Gales of delighted laughter from the ladies; I smiled at them, and knew I was sunk already – since never was the Hero the Fool.

 

“A mis-print?!” boomed Miss Fishbourne, and she stood up several inches taller than me. “Absolute poppycock, boy! This is a _women's_ contest!”

 

“Is it really. Dear me!” Tendons in my legs sprang for action as I got ready to flee.

 

“It isn't in the rule book that it's women-only Ma'am,” said one of the girls; she had brown ringlets and long green gloves.

 

“Mm-hmm, doesn't mention the sexes at all,” added another, also pretty and with a laugh in her voice.

 

“I would have said it went _without_ specifying, as no-one would be so outrageous as to... However... If you qualified, young fellow, and there's no rules against it, I must allow you to attend. I'm tough but fair, you hear me? Tough but fair. Right, sign here.”

 

“Oh thank you..” I'd never felt less thankful in my life. I'd already forgotten my own bloody name and had to check the application form before committing perjury to paper.

 

After a long, hard look at me, Miss Fishbourne came out from behind the table and stood in front of it to military attention – legs straight, heels together, shoulders stiff, hands folded behind. Sunlight caught on the ribbon-bands of the girls' bonnets and butterflies lazied around.

 

“Alright women. Now that you are all signed in we can begin. I need hardly tell you what an honour and privilege it is for all of you to be here – the Kipling company – er, that is, family – have a long and esteemed history in cake-making and culinary arts, and you girls must stand testament to that.” Here she broke off to glare at me; I thought better of lighting my cigarette and quickly pocketed it.

 

“I hope to see high standards of tradition and maybe even some sprinkling of innovation from the twelve of you. Er – that is – thirteen..”

 

“A baker's dozen,” said the ringlet girl to me. She hooked my arm. “One for luck!”

 

“Oh yes!” said the laughing girl. “Can't you tell already, it's going to be ever so much fun!” She took my other arm.

 

“Er – oh – yes indeed, yes indeed,” I stammered, it pains me to report. Since the dawn of time I have struggled with talking to women; I blame it on attending an all-boys' boarding school. Well, all manner of trouble started for me there as I'm sure you are aware!

 

“You will be assigned to groups,” said Miss Fishbourne.

 

“Oo! Oo! We have our group here, we three – don't we?” The first girl to my right smiled and added, “I'm Regina Bradbury.”

 

“And _I'm_ Victoria Fairfax,” said our companion.

 

“Pleasure's all mine.” I gave them each a hand to shake. They laughed uproariously.

 

“Here are your timetables of daily lessons, activities, and assignments for the week.” Miss Fishbourne sent around sheets of paper. “You must complete these recipes adequately for practice so we can be sure you all meet the standards for Sunday's competition. There will be many important guests, big-wigs in the restaurant line, so we don't want any embarrassments.”

 

She glared particularly at me, which I must say was a little ungenerous; I'd not had the chance to cock-up yet.

 

But perhaps it wouldn't be long. The recipe sheet called for: _torte di mele, tres leche_ , and something called _madeira_. I didn't realize that in order to cook one had to be proficient in continental language! Raffles I will get you for this!!

 

Believe me, I wish I could tell you that this rocky beginning was the lowlight of the day. Alas! Breaching the confines of enemy territory is one thing; blending in there in open sight is quite another, as it was upon me to act as if I was not only familiar but friendly with the whisk, the sieve, the muslin, the egg beater. I'd recognize a thumb-screw sooner.

 

After morning orientation, the girls and I were directed to a wash-room where we were supposed to comport ourselves neatly for kitchen duty. More accurately, I was directed to a cellar hallway with a bucket.

 

Some of my classmates were kind enough to sneak me the lend of some hot water and a comb; I thanked them most profusely, feeling infantile. Funnily enough, it did rather remind me of the first day of school all over again! Except that no-one had yet attempted to shove my head down a lavatory.

 

What followed was something of a carnival of disaster, as you might expect: firstly there were these cooking classes, during which the baking powder made me sneeze and the butter made me drop about everything I touched – the maids were kept busy clearing up my floor-messes, I can tell you.

 

Next came a painting session whereby we had to produce pictures of cakes to be used in the tent on Sunday, then came afternoon tea, then flower arranging, dinner with the whole Kiping family, after which the men went to smoke and we ladies gathered in the drawing room to drink tea and eat chocolates and talk and sew.

 

I must say I rather enjoyed that part, except for the sewing. All the same it was all rather exhausting because I kept forgetting my own life-story and tripping over all my own clever brags and asides: I was glad when the bed-time bell rang, quite dead on my feet.

 

The next day followed something of the same pattern – up in the morning, a quick bathe and we were put through our paces measuring, cracking, testing, tasting, adding, scraping, whipping and beating.

 

Those last two are inflictions which Mrs Fishbourne likely dearly wished she could apply to me; the big brown kitchen, with steam on the windows, copper skillets from the ceiling, ingredients galore and heat roaring in all six ovens simply failed to inspire me. Cake after cake melted, sank, crumbled or crisped.

 

The other girls smiled coyly at one another, convinced that my dreadful cooking and bad temper were a ruse: I was simply having fun and playing tricks until Competition Day when I would shine – surely the French would out.

 

To their faces I nodded, agreed, gave a mysterious cock to the eyebrow; outside on the terrace I sucked gratefully on a fag from a box one of the maids had sneaked me in exchange for two bags of sugar. I was above suspicion, she explained, being from the gentle-classes.

 

No sooner was my cigarette-stub plant-pot quashed than it was time for more pastimes – this time piano, badminton, and a parasol stroll through the gardens.

 

A couple of the ladies who were accompanying me wandered over to admire the exquisite topiary; I took the opportunity to stand by a bush and shuffle an after-dinner mint out of my pocket.

 

“Out on the mitch, are thee?” said the gardener beside me. “Don't they feed you enough in the big house.”  
  


“It's for my breath.” I popped the mint into my mouth. “If Mrs Fishbourne smells tobacco off me again there'll be absolute hell to pay.”  
  


“Bit of a tyrant, is she?”  
  


“Rather! Don't know where they got her from – the local military base, I shouldn't wonder. The way we are put through our paces! 'Ten-hut! Quick-march! Left-right, left-right, left-right' up the stairs to learn how to fold the drapery, or scrub the brass, or shift the furniture.

 

“All under the guise of teaching us how to be good wives – as if they need it – those women are angels! They don't deserve this aggro. I thought this was supposed to be a _prize_ – well I shan't be entering next year, or any domestic competition ever again, I can tell you.”

 

I threw down the sweet wrapper. “Damn it all Raffles, get me out of this! If we're not painting fans we're flower arranging, and if we're not sorting buttons we're steeping tea. My cooking is getting _worse_ – they'll sniff me out, the Matron's onto me like pox on a sailor.”  
  


He leaned on his spade. “I should think you're settling in _admirably_.”

 

“Am I Christ! I'm at my wit's end. I don't know even the most basic cooking terms; to boil is not to simmer is not to poach is not to blanch. What's more, the local bobbies have sweet teeth and keep popping in to the kitchen to sneak fancies and nose around..”

 

“You could always go back to London with your debts and take your chances with our own familiar beaks there.”

 

“ _No_ thank-you, not on your life. Although how much longer can I keep up this charade! AJ, this is intolerable! Tomorrow and for the rest of the week there's vicar's visits, bicycle gymkhana, basket weaving, French lessons – I simply don't have enough changes of clothes for all of these female excursions!

 

“We hardly get enough to eat at mealtimes – the men get the beef while we get fish. And because all of the dormitories have ladies in them, I have to sleep out in the bunkhouse with the stable hands – I barely got a wink of sleep, the gambling goes on all hours and I lost near three guineas!”

 

“Sounds like you're having a topping time!” Raffles popped a smoke and lit it, exhaling deliciously, just to be aggravating.

 

“Topping?! I'll top your head off!”  
  


But of course he only laughed. “Look, it's only for a few days – I've got my target and the plan is formulating. It's just a question of establishing routine.. I promise, we'll be rolling in riches before long again, Bunny dear.”  
  


Of course at that the fight all but went out of me.

 

“ _Trust_ me,” he said, earnest behind his grizzled beard.

 

I sighed. “I have no choice but to trust you. I'm always falling down wells on your behalf.”  
  


“Everyone should have at least one talent,” said he.

 

I shoved my hands into my pockets and dug at the ground with the toe of my shoe. Then I put my foot onto the side of the wheelbarrow full of compost that Raffles was – quite neatly – spreading on the rose-beds; I kicked it over, just to be disagreeable, and the muck spread over the pristine lawn. Then I took to my heels.

 

Behind me, I heard Raffles calling: “If we were still at school you'd get six without the dressing-gown for that!!”

 

“You'd have to catch me first!” I shouted, which evoked a laugh – of course he always caught me, doesn't he spend half his life sprinting up and down the cricket pitch!

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so the week rolled on relentlessly. Day-in, day-out, the same routine – dawn-bell, wake up in the stable, which would have been freezing if not for the other lads. And they were decent sorts; though they laughed openly at me, they also gave me towels and soap and showed me where I could shave – out in the yard, at an old cracked parlour-mirror nailed to the shed wall.

 

After breakfast – half a grapefruit – the hot hellish cooking practice, which was deemed a success if I managed not to blow something up.

 

Then some leaves for lunch, and then activities: organizing the larder, excursions to the village shop for groceries, learning about value for money, proper storage and expiration dates of perishable food.. Trivial things like that.

 

Then horseback riding, boating, singing lessons.. I began to run to fantasies about prison! At least there would be a rock upon which to crack my head!

 

All the same, all of these endeavours I wrote down when I had a spare moment – usually in the stables, by candlelight – and kept the pages of novel-notes under my pillow. Misery means money!

 

One evening, we were gathered in the drawing-room as always while Elizabeth played some Bach on the piano. The maid brought me a telegram on a silver tray. It said: 'KEEP IT UP!'

 

Keep it up! Did you ever! I might have crumpled it.

 

“Not bad news, I hope?” Henrietta, beside me on the sofa, put her teacup back on its saucer in concern.

 

“Oh, no, no, thank you, just..” I waved the paper with a feeble smile. “Someone just – sending me their best wishes.”

 

“Your gentleman friend?” said Victoria.

 

“My what?”

 

“That tall, dark fellow with whom you were conversing on our first morning here,” said Victoria.

 

“That very handsome one,” said Henrietta, and disappeared behind her fan.

 

“That handsome fellow is _not_ my friend,” I said.

 

“Aha.” Regina winked and patted my knee. “ _I_ see. You lucky boy!”  
  


“What!!”

 

As you can surmise, I was making little head-way with regard to understanding women. Or they me. Hardly surprising really – there must be some sort of defect in my synapses upstairs – as the kitchen was laying bare. When the recipe called for a heaped teaspoon of cocoa, for some reason I would prepare to throw in half the jar, and Regina would grab my wrist: “My _word_ will you go easy Mr Baxter! A delicate touch – the excess is in the _eating_ , the restraint in the preparation.”  
  


“Well, my father always said if there's any good in it, it's in plenty of it!” I joked. Of course my father never said any such thing. But I bet you can guess who did!

 

All too soon it was the weekend; for all I wanted the whole sojourn to be over, still I dreaded Sunday, the day of the competition, when making a complete tit of myself was the least of my worries and being arrested for fraud the most pressing.

 

Perhaps it was thought generally up at the House that there might be a nervous tension among us girls, because a ball was organized for Saturday night.

 

I was even allowed into the house to get ready, under the supervision of a valet who spent the whole time with his feet up on the washing-basket reading _The Strand_. As I had not packed in preparation for such elegant evening socializing, I got the lend of a suit and tails from the son of the house, Kipling Jnr, who was away at university and evidently about a half-a-foot taller than me. The girls folded back the sleeves and trouser-cuffs and secured them with thread. Who would notice me anyway!

 

I must say, though, that no expense was spared for the evening – full dinner, string quartet, flowers everywhere and the style! Huge hats, and vast ruffled skirts; the men in their best-cut suits and army regalia.

 

By now it had been _six whole days_ since I'd had a drink, and I was like a camel at a desert oasis. I stood on the edge of the vast ballroom, watching the waltzers, with a Chardonnay in one hand and Claret in the other and a blissful cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

 

A plate with a slice of cake appeared before me.

 

I sniffed at it. “Quite the last thing I want to see just now, as you are well aware.”

 

“It's exceedingly good. Is it your own creation?”  
  


“No. I'm keeping my talents hidden until the contest tomorrow – at least that's what I'm spreading around.. You look nice,” I added grudgingly, because he did. Raffles is and always was the perfect specimen for any suit, and this one was no exception; it was of deep dark blue, grey cummerbund and white carnation in his buttonhole. His black locks shone brightly, and he was particularly tanned – probably all of that gardening!

 

“I don't suppose you're here to sweep me away so that I don't have to compete tomorrow?” I said. “Honest to God, AJ, I'm at the end of my rope. All of these activities! I wouldn't mind but the girls are running rings around me at every venture – it's hardly an impressive impression.

 

“Yesterday, all of the others caught all make and manner of butterfly – while all I could net was a Red Admiral. They're ten-a-penny.” I gulped my drink. “Can't drink, can't smoke – I needed help heaving up onto the horse – they all think I'm a dandy!”

 

“Hm. Hm, hm, hm.” Raffles wasn't fooling anyone. Keeping his smiling mouth closed – laughing still.

 

“I tell you, it won't _do,_ AJ!”

 

“Won't do. Would you like to dance?”

 

“Would I _what_?!”

 

“Like to dance? With me?” He kept smiling steadily. Not his usual devilish one. Something else.

 

“I hardly think that would do my reputation any favours..” Why wasn't I refusing outright?

 

“Thought you said you were well beyond social redemption.” Aren't his eyes so very blue.

 

“It's true – I'm a dead duck as a Romeo – one of the girls this morning told me that she admired my 'artistic temperament',” I said glumly. “I had been trying to propose to her some Keats. 'Season of mists and yellow fruitfulness' I sighed to her, 'Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.' Didn't strike a note.”

 

“Looks like you'll have to take your bosoms elsewhere,” said Raffles, adding mysteriously, “And I should think you yourself have yet some maturing to do. Now. Do stop dilly-dallying and come have a dance.” He held out his hand.

 

“You always insult me and then expect me to go along with your shenanigans! Anyway – we can't.”  
  


“Why not?”

 

“Why not? Where have you been living? Lyon? We're two men.”

 

“Is there a law against dancing all of a sudden? Let's just do it and see if anyone stops us.”  
  


“Your philosophy in life.” Wearily I gave in to him, as ever I do; he allowed me my last gulps of booze before he took the wine-glasses, left them aside, and led me out onto the dance-floor for a waltz.

 

_Everyone_ was looking, it felt like, as I took his shoulder and he my waist and we were away, around and around; yet with the music, the spinning, and – well, Raffles smiling fondly as he does, well – one tends to almost forget the rest of the world – temporarily.

 

“All the same, I oughtn’t dance with you really, Raffles – I'm already far below suspicion.”

 

“A person of interest, eh, Bunny?”

 

“Why – yes, actually. Eyes on me everywhere I go – oh, they think me not a _criminal_ , but a clown! I should never have let you pack my clothes, Raffles! And tomorrow I truly _shall_ be exposed – oh I can't bear it!”

 

Even as we danced, I reached for his pocket. “Where's the pistol you had off me ages ago? I need it now! This is it! I mean it this time!”

 

“Now Bunny. You simply can't threaten to kill yourself each and every time you feel a slight upon your masculinity. You'll end up riddled.”  
  


Raffles grinned at a neighbouring couple, and spun me around.

 

“Oh, you couldn't possibly understand, AJ – tall men don't. Owing to my slight height, my hair, my teeth and my freckles and the rest of a long list, I was always teased at school for being 'effete.'”

 

“Oh yes. All of the bullying you had to endure. I remember it.”

 

“Remember it?! You _did_ half of it!”

 

“Oh – well.”

 

“ _Yes well_. All of those apple-pie beds! Sponges on top of the door! Pepper in my jotter! _Hours_ spent locked in the games-room cupboard!”

 

Raffles looked at me squarely. “Now Bunny – given our positions, you know that was expected of me. I was much less sadistic than the other prefects, believe me.”

 

For some reason I went tomato-red. “Yes, I know.. I always knew that, I suppose..”

 

He made no reply, but danced me around some more.

 

“And I can hardly blame you,” I said, “For my being an absolute flop with the ladies. I fear it's nature. I've spent so much time with them all this week, and they are _all_ so lovely, but I shan't get a chance with a single one!”

 

“They are all married, Bunny. You saw them with their husbands on registration day.”  
  


“There's always sisters!”

 

“Yes.. Yes, there's always sisters..” Raffles went a little quiet for a while. Around us skirts spun, lots of lip-sticked smiles and candles flashing as we whirled and whisked, wasn't this just like life with Raffles, going nowhere practically, but round and round in circles in a carousel of opulence!

 

“Anyway,” said Raffles briskly, “Fear not, my boy. Our target is in this very room right now.” And indeed jewels sparkled from every corner.

 

The music ended. Everyone clapped, even I: I still felt foolish but actually rather flushed with jolly: it was nice to dance with a friend rather than a stranger for once. Never occurred to me before.

  
“Well.” Raffles bowed. “Thank you for the dance, my dear. I must say it feels good to have talked, and for us to have shared our plans with one another.”  
  
“Oh AJ.. The pleasure was all mine, I – hay, wait a minute. What a load of twaddle! You've not told me a bally thing! What are you scheming?”

 

Raffles merely saluted as he walked away. “Oh -” He turned. “And lest I forget – you look nice too.”  
  


Can't you see – he just never gives me a chance.

 

“Knock 'em dead!” He departed, before I could reply that this was hardly the most optimistic thing to say to a would-be cook!

 

However I had not much time to brood. After Raffles made such a show of us, the ladies all lined up to dance with me; not a single one of them let me lead.

 

Some hours later, as the empty glasses piled up and the musicians were out on the porch smoking, we girls were summoned to Mrs Fishbourne's study. There she presented each of us with a sealed, ribboned scroll – our assignments for the Big Competition the next day, along with a dire warning that we had better live up to Kipling School standards in front of the most honourable guest judge – or else.

 

I'm afraid it was to be else for me. I took one look at the contents of my scroll and went straight up to the loft of the stables with a bottle of whiskey.

 

Baked Alaska! The pride of every mother-in-law! The scourge of every wedding! The most difficult recipe on earth – everyone knows that, even the stable-lads. “Ey-up,” was their consensus. “That'll take some fair doing.”

 

I lay fretting on the straw for maybe an hour, shivering and considering my terrible options: stay and bomb the competition, and get arrested for impersonation, fraud, culinary malpractice and what-ever else the magistrate could dream up; or return to London and have my legs broken by our discreditable creditors, to be then dumped on the doorway of Scotland Yard.

 

Neither appealed!

 

At some point during a light, fitful sleep, I awoke with a start when a door or a window banged nearby. All was darkness. At first I thought I'd gone blind – at last! a solution to my problems! - but no, there was a note affixed to my face. I peeled it off and read: _Meet at 3 o' clock at the kissing-gate at orchard. All will be revealed xxx_

 

By Jove! He's done it! The old boy's come through for me at last, at last – Oh Raffles you terrible tease – what a rag – but I'm saved, I'm saved!

 

I leapt out of bed and into my dressing-gown, pulled on a pair of boots belonging to one of the grooms and the cap and scarf of another – they were practising socialists, it was fine – and I yanked open the attic door, scrambled down the rope ladder, and raced across the wet moonlit yard to the back of the house.

 

At the gate I panted and waited and shook. Not a creature stirred, and I blew on my fingers -

 

“That's some get-up you got on, soldier.”

 

A voice. A _female_ voice.

 

The girls all emerged as one from the trees like divine nymphs; though there was face-cream, the odd head in curlers, and even a shower cap.

 

“What's going on?” I said, and hopefully: “Are we all making a run for it?”

 

“Not on your life.” It was Regina, she who had spoken just now. “In fact, just the opposite – we're going to build you up.”  
  
“How'd you mean..” I was uneasy.

 

“We've decided – between all of us – that this week has been such fun, and we're all _such_ good friends now, that to end on a competition was silly,” said Elizabeth. “So we've decided that _you_ should win, Mr Baxter, because – bless-you – you are such a hard worker. You deserve it for effort.”

 

“Oh – well – thank-you – but there's no way in h-heck I'll win or even place,” said I. “I'm utterly hopeless.”

 

“No such thing as no hope – it costs nothing. The more dire a situation – the more scope for hope!” Victoria squeezed my arm. “We're going to help you. Tonight. Now.”

 

“That's right. We're going to make the most wonderful cook out of you by tomorrow, or a pox and a shame on the Kipling Kitchenettes!” said Alexandria, and what followed were squeals and high pitched cheers of agreement.

 

“You're going to teach me how to cook?” I said. “In five hours? You'd be better off holding hands and forming a witching circle.”

 

“Haw! Haw! Isn't he funny.” Regina slapped me on the back, quite hard.

 

I was frog-marched to the back-door of the kitchen, whereupon the lock was picked with a hairpin – wonderful cracksmanship. Or crackswoman.

 

“This really is – too decent of you, ladies..” I looked nervously around at the shining pots and pans, shimmering in the candles. It was spooky. “Really you needn't bother on my account..”

 

“Nonsense! You simply lack confidence,” said Eleanor. “What do we say ladies, _Deeds Not Words_! We girls must stick together. It's not easy to make it in a man's world.”

 

“But I _am_ a man!” I peeked into the looking-glass in the scullery – to make sure.

 

To be honest I still wasn't certain!

 

“Now – enough nonsense – roll up your sleeves, Mr Baxter, and fetch the chopping-board, the mixing-bowl and the rolling-pin,” said Celeste. “You _shall_ go to the ball!

 

“I don't want to go to the ball, I want to go back to bed!” I said.

 

“Isn't he funny when he's angry. Ha! Ha!” said Regina. There's an AJ everywhere.

 

Fires were set to roaring, and hushed voices whispered out plans and instructions.

 

“You'll want to do the sponge first of course, because the meringue will take no time at all.”

 

“No, one _must_ start with the ice-cream. That will have to be frozen by the block in plenty of time.”

 

“ _I_ should have the strawberries de-leafed and sugared so they are always ready to hand. Remember what Mrs F said?”

 

(In chorus): “ _Always to hand_!”

 

At this point it had been four hours since my last drink.

 

“I should have thought you'd know full well how to bake an Alaska, seeing as how it was invented by your namesake,” said Regina.

 

“What, Bunny?”  
  


“ _What_ did you call me?”

 

“I mean – um – of course I've made it before – just forgot it a little.” I tapped my head. “Mind like a sieve!”

 

Through the night we battled – sneezes from the baking powder, egg after egg after egg cracked and whisked around – groans when something sank or burned, hopeful holdings-of-breath when the thick white tufts kept their shape.

 

“Do you know,” said Elizabeth, as she licked some cream, “that if an Englishwoman is unable to make a satisfactory Victoria sponge, it's seen as akin to treason?”

 

I gave her a look over the vanilla pod scrapings.

 

“Oh yes,” added Arabella. “You'll get the stockade.”  
  


“The rack,” said Eleanor.

 

“The shackles.”

 

“The rope.”

 

“Oh good _God_ girls! You're only pulling my leg.”  
  
Regina tweaked my nose. “Yeh.”

 

“I wondered! Beginning to think – it's a good thing I'm not an Englishwoman.” I cut the soggy middle out of my cake, and trimmed off the burnt sides, leaving – not all that much. All of my cast-of failed experiments were going into a bucket for the dogs – they'd have a glorious Sunday if no-one else did.

 

On we toiled – damnit, these women had patience and perseverance in absolute spades. All of them made their own Baked Alaskas alongside mine – though really they had one eye on their own endeavours and one on the messes I created – often more batter on the spoons and dish-rags and sink and floor than in the baking tin.

 

It boded ill for the morrow.

 

At one point, there came a clattering up above us and my night-time instincts leapt to my limbs – Quick! The home-owners have awoken! The beaks are here! We must flee before sirens and search-lights and cries of Thievery! Burglary! Dastardly deeds!

 

Then Mary pointed a sticky finger at the egg-timer and I remembered where I was and that the meringue needed exactly _two minutes forty-five seconds_ to brown, and down I swooped with the oven gloves.

 

I took it out and laid it on the counter beside all the others' artworks – all in all, twelve beautiful, indistinguishable Baked Alaskas.

 

“By Jove, I think he's done it!” Rose wiped her brow.

 

“Nobody so much as _breathe_ near it,” said Victoria. She put her floury hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “The rest is up to God.”  
  


Back at the stables, where I was going to treat myself to thirty-seven minutes sleep, Charlie, the lad whose bed I was sharing for the week, was snoring already but had drawn back the blankets for me, which was very jolly of him.

 

And later (but not much later), when I got up and went to the tea-chest to grope for the shaving things, I found a card – or at least a note that had been folded over and said: 'GUD LUK GUV' on the front.

 

Dear Charlie! I'd almost miss him. Mind you, he wasn't one of the grooms to whom I owed poker-money; they ought be wishing me luck too, if only in their own interests. Can't shake coins from a corpse!

 

And so it was Sunday. And sunny! Of course! Just to torment my mood! On the lawn in front of the great red-brick Kipling Manor loomed a large red and white tent, with flags blowing in the breeze and rows of chairs in front of the stage, and all of that festive guff.

 

The maids stoked the fires in the ovens for the baking. Oh it was the real McCoy! With this faker right in the middle of it.

 

As we stood to the side of the stage – all of us contestants were equally bleary of eye – I roved my gaze over the crowd. All jaunty, middle aged and middle everything, really, apart from a few especially well-to-do sorts sitting right at the front, bulging in their expensive gowns and pinstripe trousers, fanning and dabbing in the heat.

 

Uneasily I picked out a few bobbies. Plain-clothes of course, but one can _always_ tell. The tight shoulders. The small, suspicious eyes. The hairy ears.

 

“Oo! Look – third row – Mummy and Daddy! And my husband.” Victoria waved excitedly.

 

“And my parents too,” said Regina. “And how about yours, Mr Baxter, could they make it from the south of France?”

 

“I haven't got parents,” I said without thinking. To be honest, I don't think about it much – haven't I always been looked after, anyway?

 

Perhaps not on _this_ particular morning, however!

 

The girls were taken aback though; Victoria clasped one of my hands and Regina the other, and we stood patiently, numbers pinned to our lapels, while Mrs Fishbourne announced the Kipling family, and welcomed the spectators, _especially_ the patrons and shareholders and 'friends' of the institute – in fact she welcomed only them, really; implied that she could give or take the plebeians.

 

With that, she signalled the start of the competition with a resounding crack of a gunshot – a rifle no less – which I must say was a little extreme; it's possible however that I was the only one present whose immediate instinct was to drop down onto my front and yell, 'Hit the dirt!!' Our criminal exploits have tarnished me, made me paranoid as a fox at the beagle bark. Generally we dull that anxiety with whiskey!

 

And so to our tables, where – in front of _everyone_ – we had to prepare ice-cream, sponge-cake, candied fruit and meringue, all from scratch and all somehow supposed to come together to a working dessert in the end.

 

The birds sang and darted around the trees; the yawning maids and stable-boys stood to hand with huge blocks of ice. At first I couldn't see the foggiest reason why anyone would find this to be entertaining.

 

Goodness I learned!

 

Because – smoke poured, flour puffed into white clouds engulfing, thumbs were mashed, eggs rolled off tables and smashed onto the stage floor. All manner of calamity ensued.

 

And if you can believe it – it wasn't just me! Perhaps the girls were making a cock-up of their cooking as a show of solidarity, or maybe nerves got to everyone: their red, frustrated faces and fringes sticking to foreheads, and under-breath swearing were real.

 

When one applies oneself to science, things are apt to go pear-shaped. That's why literature is so much better for the human. More forgiving.

 

And speaking of forgiving, perhaps had been, for I muttered prayers to myself as I worked, and so managed not to do anything too chaotically wrong. There.. The cream was on ice. The sponge was rising. The meringue had stiff white peaks and, wiping my hands, I had a moment to think – worse, even, than working!

 

Regina spotted me and gave me a wink, before she sniffed and raced to her own sponge: “No rest for the wicked!”

 

All the while Mrs Fishbourne roved around our tables like an army officer, glaring at cakes so strongly as to make them sink. She passed my clutter without comment, which was a first. Idly I made to lick the batter off my spoon, but a maid swiftly grabbed it from my hand and threw it into her bucket for washing.

 

Finally came the crucial moment – fire on the ice-cream, or rather the meringue: of course one must always wonder – you do, I do, the entire audience craned their necks to see – whether a bit of puffy egg white _really_ can protect ice-cream under fire from dribbling down into a pouring mess all over the tray, and thus – sinking the whole travail.

 

As we held our hot-holders over the meringues, all of us stopped breathing for two minutes, forty-five seconds – and then – _God's in his heaven – all's right with the world!_ \- thirteen perfect, slightly browned Alaskas. Textbook.

 

A ringing round of applause just from this achievement, and we cooks – just enough of us – exchanged sweaty, relieved smiles.

 

“And time!” boomed Mrs Fishbourne. “And please do welcome our distinguished guest judge, all the way from Dijon France and Great Portland Street London, Monsieur Chevalier, award-winning restaurateur and leading word expert on whipped eggs. Thank you, sir, for making time in your busy schedule for our humble country event.”

 

“Mais non. It is mon plaisir, ma cherie.” The esteemed chef smiled – probably – behind his handlebar moustache, and climbed the steps to the stage, where he strolled around slowly and impressively, his long frame tucked into his white coat and on his head the requisite tall white hat.

 

As he tasted all of the deserts, one arm folded behind his back, he gave a wink or a smile or a funny line to each of the girls, to make them laugh and blush.

 

When he came to me he spared no similar fanfare. “And what have we _here_ , mon petit ami?”

 

“Reel it in, would you. Christ!” I hissed. Keeping his blue eyes on me, he stuck his fork right down into the centre of my Alaska, and broke a big bit away. The ice-cream was intact. I mopped my brow in celebration.

 

“Mon dieu! Sacre bleu! Forthwith never have I tasted a creation so belle – er – beau – er – both!” He took another excited bite, then another – four or five – and went on to wolf down the whole lot. Once the last crumb was gone, he threw down his fork passionately, and turned to open his arms to the audience, ignoring Mr Fishbourne and the Kipling family who had lined up for their taste, their forks held aloft in surprise.

 

“Alors! We have a winner. Zis boy! I tell you, mes amis, zis is a truly ground-breaking moment in culinary 'istory. 'Ow you say – red-letter-day. _Never_ before has a dessert tasted so -” He kissed his fingertips. “ _Mwah_. And from one so young, so fresh, so simple-looking!”

 

All I could do was grit my teeth behind the grin while the spectators clapped politely and the girls whistled and cheered.

 

Somewhat perplexed, Mrs Fishbourne all the same gamely shook my hand: “Good show, old sport” and led to me to the centre of the stage to pose for a photograph with our venerable judge and the Kipling family, the daughter of which curtsied and presented me with a huge bunch of chrysanthemums and my prize: and yellow parasol, with frilled edges and a big pink bow holding it folded.

 

“See Bunny? I told you we'd replace your umbrella.”

 

I had no words.

 

“Smile for the camera now! Say cheese!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, despite all of my hitherto whinging, could any occasion that celebrates sugar, cream, eggs, spices, strawberries, butter, cocoa and icing and all of those really _wonderful_ things really be such a bad thing? I mean to say, it was in essence – a festivity of benign and very _beautiful_ excess.

 

And we all love excess.

 

I know I jolly do anyway!

 

After the competition came the party to celebrate our week of cooking on the Kipling ranch. Cake was plentiful on the outdoor tables – in fact I'll stretch to say cake was the common factor, the staple, the order of the day. I must have eaten my weight in it; I'd by now developed rather a taste for a lovely jam sandwich; felt it went down extraordinarily well with a few scotches.

 

In fact I was just strolling through the corridor behind the library on the way upstairs with one hand in my pocket and the other swinging a half-full magnum of champagne, when a part of the wall beside me opened and a figure darted out.

 

My reactions were a bit slow, for some reason, and all I did was take a step backwards, and then forwards, and then back again, and said, “Good lord! I declare! I – oh, it's you. Hullo.”

 

It was Regina, all decked out in flowing black skirts, black gloves, her hair tied up in a black headscarf, and – wait for it – a mask on her face.

 

“What are you up to?” I took a conversational pull on my cigar. “Off to do some pilfering?”

 

She shot forward – put her hand on my mouth – obliging her to take my cigar between two fingers – and said - “I already have been – all week in fact, trying – well, does that shock you?”  
  


“Terribly.” I muffled.

 

She relaxed – an inch. I bet she never does totally. “Well, I came here not to win this competition, but to right a wrong – to tell the truth, my name's not Regina at all.”

 

“No more is mine Antoine.”

 

We shook hands to un-make our acquaintance.

 

“So what's this wrong then?”

 

“It's this family. These Kiplings.” Her voice a little dangerous. “This house. Lords-o-the-manor. Oo! I'll fix 'em! I will! Years ago, my grandparents were tenants here – smallholders. Back when there was proper farming going on.

 

“One day when they couldn't pay rent they were tossed out on their ear. No loyalty, no reasoning, no compassion. All their stuff seized, by those bloody barons – including something they'd no right to.”  
  


From behind her back she brought out a framed piece of handwritten paper – I peered at it woozily. “Really. My goodness. Well, it's lovely. Quite arresting. The colour! The composition! _Trés chic_!”

 

“It's my grandmother's old family recipe for Bramley Eve pudding. More valuable than any jewel.” Her eyes glistened. “If we patent it – produce it _en masse_ – commercialize it – we'll be millionaires!”

  
“Extraordinary! I take my hat off to you! Oh – where's it gone – hm, I _was_ wearing a hat at some stage..”

 

Regina – or, well, the mystery moonlighter – snapped off the back of the frame, rolled up the recipe, drew her skirts half-way up her thigh and stuck the bounty in her black garter.

 

“Well – must take my leave while there's a chance and the road to fortune. Farewell!” She gave me a kiss on the hand and disappeared down the hall, behind a painting.

 

“Bye bye now! Good luck!” I called, and heard in reply: “ _Shhhh_ , idiot!!”

 

I waved at the wall and then ambled upstairs to the third storey to the big softly-pastelled bedroom, with its fluffy carpets and polished wood and leather furniture.

 

The gentle palatial atmosphere was contrasted somewhat by the noises coming from the wash-room to the left of the wooden wardrobe.

 

“You alright in there?” I said as I lay on the cottony bedsheets, loosened my tie and looked about for an ashtray.

 

More coughing and retching.

 

In a moment, Raffles lurched into view, covered in sweat, his shirt unbuttoned and cuffs hanging open, panting for breath as he clung to the bathroom door-way. He stumbled to sit heavily in the side of the bed; bent right over, he put his head in his hands.

 

“My _God_ Bunny – you had _one_ job! Alright, your pudding looked the part, but did it have to actually be so _very_ foul? I'm very nearly sacrificing my life for this job.”

 

“No more than you deserve, drawing me into all this,” I said heartlessly. “And you didn't have to scoff the lot.”

 

“Yes I _did_ , because of any of the others had tasted the ghastly thing, they'd hardly agree that it was the winning entry! They'd be more liable to have you arrested for attempted poisoning! My God, what on earth was in it..”

 

“That Alaska was cooked to _perfection_ ,” I said hotly. “And don't start on the quality of the ingredients – those eggs are fresh-delivered daily from the farm, and the butter fully churned and salted.”

 

Raffles looked over his stooped shoulder at me. “Such vehement defence! Thinking of staying on and taking a job here?”

 

“No bloody fear.” I lay back on the propped pillows, took Raffles' top hat from the bed-post and popped it on my head, pulled down over my eyes. “I'm never working another day in my life if I can help it.”

 

“Ha, that's my boy. Ah..” Raffles groaned; I cracked an eye, sat up and looked at him. He was crouched into a painful ball and even as he sat, shivering.

 

“Raffles.. Are you _really_ very ill?”

 

“Mm.. I'm alright, it'll p-pass.”

 

I took off the hat and moved to sit right beside him. I put my arm around him and drew his head down onto my shoulder. “Oh my dear.. AJ, I'm sorry. How beastly of me to tease you when you're so poorly! Shall I fetch for a doctor?

 

“No! No, honestly – don't. Thank you. It's alright – and anyway, it's worth it, if only that I managed to keep you safe from the debt collectors for a week.” He drank a little of the water I pressed into his hand and gave a wobbly smile. “And doubly advantageous if it gave you the opportunity to increase your social acquaintance with women.”

 

“Women?”

 

“Well, yes, Bunny. You're always moaning about how you never get to meet ladies and how you're afraid of them.”  
  


“I've never actually said _that,_ ” I protested.

 

“Now you'll have more experience with talking to women.”

 

“Mm.. Well.. I suppose so. That's as maybe. But I like talking to you best.” Shit! Where did _that_ come from?! Yet I didn't like to retract it. I liked the look on his face.

 

“This going to be a permanent feature?” Raffles tweaked the hem of my blue checked apron. “Very fetching.”  
  


“Oh yes.” I decided to cheer him up a little. I stood and larked about, twirled around the parasol like a baton. “I believe it will go nicely with my new accessory here. I'll knock the socks off the other strollers in Hyde park. ' _Three little maids from school are we, pert as a school-girl well can be, filled to the brim with girlish –_ ARGH!!”

 

Upon my opening the parasol, a rock crashed down upon my head and all but knocked me out.

 

No – not a rock. It was – a necklace, ruby – twelve of them, about five carat I should think, roughly round in shape, perhaps five eighths of an inch in diameter, vibrant red with only very minor inclusions.. Of course I'll need my jeweller’s loupe to really be certain..

 

“So this was our mark!” I held them reverently.

 

With his arms crossed over his sore stomach Raffles said: “Yes, I lifted them from the elder Lady Kipling's rooms today. Shan't be missed with all this festivity going on.. Of course we were supposed to be over the hills and far away by the time its absence was noted and the alarm raised..”

 

I dropped down on one knee and put one hand on his leg, the other on his shoulder and looked up into his face. “And so we _shall_ , darling – don't worry, I'll look after you. Alright, perhaps we won't be able to scale walls and tip-toe across battlements and slide down ropes like we usually do, but by Jove we'll escape alright. We'll take the hidden staircase.”

 

“Hidden staircase! How do you know of one?”

 

“One of the other girls showed it to me just now before I came in.”  
  


“One of the other girls..” Raffles laughed and shook his head.

 

“Come on – un-cross your arms, AJ, there's a good fellow, and let me help you into your coat – it's frosty out. And I'll pack all our things, and we'll be out of here like lightening.” It's not very often I play the authoritative role. Trust Raffles to have to tap on death's door to spur me into activity!

 

Hauling all of the luggage, I managed to drag Raffles out to the landing, along the thick carpet to the stairs, down to the second floor, and through the concealed staircase, at which Raffles barely batted an eye.

 

We emerged outside, in the water garden, which was a nice bit of luck because I actually had no idea where the secret passageway led to; could have been the Master Bedroom for all we knew, now wouldn't that be an antic!

 

“I've organized transportation,” Raffles wheezed – the poor thing still cringing in discomfort - “Down at the main gateway entrance..”

 

Of course, this Battenburg pile was an archetype abode of the landed gentry, and so the front driveway was a good tree-lined mile long – parts of it uphill. Sheer ostentation!

 

“Don't worry, I'll get us there.” I looked around the garden, my fingers at my temple.

 

Half-a-minute later found us cresting the hill of the avenue, Raffles perched cross-legged in the wheelbarrow clutching his precious cricket bats, while I ran behind pushing it, my top-hat crooked and my cape billowing out abaft.

 

It wasn't at all easy heaving that heavy barrow uphill by the handles while still tending to my champagne bottle and cigar, but somehow I managed to juggle all of them.

 

From the house came shouts, crashes, lights and hubbub. “The alarm has been raised! Make haste, Bunny, or it's rumbles and curtains and the high gaol walls!!”

 

“I'm going as bloody fast as I can!” I might have said, if I could talk. Raffles' topper kept slipping down over my eyes and he was obliged to direct the way, left, right, mind the puddle, watch the tree..

 

Finally we came to the end of the drive, to the ivy-covered arch at the entranceway, and Raffles put his heel to the ground to bring us to a skidding halt. My lungs felt ready to burst; I coughed and hacked so much that it was difficult to find a spot to pull a smoke.

 

“Come, Bunny, come, come! There's no time to lose!” Raffles pulled me by the hand out of the gates; he was doubled over a bit, whether from pain or for purposes of concealment I don't know.

 

“Where's our getaway vehicle?” I said during laboured exhales.

 

He pulled back a low tree branch. “Right here.”

 

I stared. “Raffles, it's a _horse_!”

 

“Clever boy.”  
  


“Where's the rest of it?! Where's the trap?”

 

“Fine specimen, isn't she? A string of accolades to her name.” Raffles patted her brown muzzle, and grinned at me. “Do you think they'll miss her too?”

 

I sighed. “We're stealing their racehorse.”

 

“One must deepen one's pockets in this game, Bunny, you're fighting against tradition.” With that he gripped the saddle and swung himself up onto the great big mare impressively, then looked down at me with his hand extended like he was the Scarlet Pimpernel or something.

 

“Raffles, why must you always do this? Make such a bloody show? Why can't we ever just slip away inconspicuously for once?”

 

“Bunny, there's a time for talking and a time for action. Guess which one is now?”

 

I sighed and groused and expressed my usual displeasure, all the while fixing the luggage to the saddle; I stuck my foot into the stirrup and Raffles hauled me up behind him easily. He squeezed the horse with his knees, flapped the reins, and cried: “Now away and come what may! Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!!”

 

I think he may have been hamming it up a little on my account; as we galloped along like thunder I had my arms wrapped tight around his body, and I could feel his stomach still gurgling.

 

Honestly – that man! I declare – he'll do simply anything for ceremony. I decided I should have to insist that he take a rest and recover when we got back to the Albany; likely he would accept all the care I could offer him except my cooking.

 

For now I was rather happy to stay on the carousel, and as we sped away, leaving all manner of chaos in our wake, I rested my cheek on his warm shoulder and wondered what would thrill the presses more: the newspaper-article with scant detail of robbery at the country bake-off, or the fabulous, pseudonymous magazine-serialization of the Thrilling Case of Mystery and Mayhem at the Château de Gateau!!

 


End file.
